


I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside

by non_canonical



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Blood Drinking, F/M, Humor, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Canon, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August, 1954.  Hal hasn't been himself lately, and maybe a change will do him good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).



> _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  Title taken from the [music hall song](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Do_Like_To_be_Beside_the_Seaside) by John A Glover-Kind.

Hal's suit is still damp with blood, the shirt stiff and rusty.  Cutler throws them into the dustbin and unscrews the lid of the petrol can.  The heat slaps him in the face when he tosses in the match.  Cutler's shirt is clinging to his sticky skin, and he plucks the soggy cotton away from his back, his armpits.  It only brings a moment's relief.  The sun's too fierce, and the fire is like its own separate circle of hell, but Cutler's been given a job to do and Hal's never trusted him with this before.  Has never needed this before, but that's beside the point.  Cutler retreats into the meagre shade and watches the flames consume the evidence.

The yard is hot, but at least there's the hint of fresh air.  Inside the pub it's hotter still, and the air is thick with beer and smoke and stale sweat.  Too many men, cooped up together: Hal's little entourage is depressingly male.  Not for the first time, Cutler wonders where all the lady vampires are.  And, not for the first time, he takes one look at Hal and decides he can live without knowing.  The memory of what Hal did to that woman the night before is a little too fresh, and the ashes of those ruined clothes are still smouldering.

Cutler trudges to the bar.  He fills a glass and holds it out, but Hal waves the congealing liquid away with disgust.  It doesn't keep long in this heat.  Waste not, want not – Cutler grew up with rationing – and he downs it himself, grimacing around the sourness.

"I think it's gone bad," he says.  He'd swear that he can actually see the stuff clotting inside the decanter.  "We should get one of those refrigerators."

Hal grunts in response, and that's not good.  Hal Yorke is never short of something to say: he always has just the right words, or precisely the wrong ones.  Now he's staring mutely at Cutler, jacket discarded, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt unfastened.  He's coming undone.  Hal looks tired: maybe he hasn't been sleeping.  None of them have been sleeping well, not since the thermometer hit ninety and London began to swelter.  Maybe that's why Hal's temper is so unpredictable, why he was so savage last night.  So messy.  Maybe that's why his appetite is so erratic – feast or famine – although Cutler's hunger is as insistent as ever, the curdled blood only dulling its edge.  They need a good storm to clear the air – or maybe a change of air.

"Let's go on holiday," Cutler says.

"Holiday," Hal echoes, as though he's never heard the word before, but surely even he needs to get away from this place sometimes.

"The south of France," Cutler urges.

Palm trees and expensive cars.  Cutler's seen the photographs – Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo – and never mind how it stung his pride to see the travel agent's knowing smile when he handed over the brochures.  This time, Cutler can afford to go.  Well, strictly speaking, it's Hal's money, but he won't begrudge Cutler his share.  They'll stay in the best hotels and drink cocktails on the terrace.  Dance with all the pretty girls and watch the sun rise over the Mediterranean.

"The tosspot's got an idea."  Fergus flops down into a chair.  The chair between Cutler and Hal.

"A change is as good as a rest," Dennis says, taking the seat on Hal's other side.  And this isn't right, the two of them agreeing with each other.  This isn't what Cutler was planning: it's supposed to be him and Hal, just the two of them.

"I'm not leaving the country," Hal frowns.  "Herrick will do something stupid the moment I turn my back."

Bugger Herrick.  Cutler's tired of hearing about the man, about what a danger he is, when they can't do anything about it.

"It's politics," Hal told him, but what's the point in being an Old One if you can't just kill whoever you want?

"What about the seaside?" Dennis says.  He's busy mopping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief.  It can't be pleasant under that beard, and Cutler's chin feels itchy just thinking about it.  "Fresh air.  Ice cream."

"Girls that don't taste of smog."  Fergus grins.

"Where?" Hal asks, and Cutler knows that he's lost.  If Hal is asking questions, that means he's interested.

"Southend," Dennis suggests.  But that's where the old people go, and Cutler isn't going to spend his holiday watching geriatrics tottering along the promenade and snoring in their deckchairs.

"What about Brighton?" he says.

And that's how Cutler finds himself driving Fergus and Dennis to the south coast.  He puts his foot down once they reach the motorway, but Hal's Bentley has long since disappeared from sight – hardly surprising, given the way that Louis drives.  Predictably, they've managed to pick the hottest day of the year.  The air is stifling, sweat is gluing Cutler's back to the leather upholstery, and of course Fergus would have to be a backseat driver.  Cutler idly considers ploughing into the central reservation, just so he doesn't have to listen to the bickering behind him.

But then the sea is shimmering enticingly, and if there aren't any palm trees lining the seafront, then there is a row of flag poles outside of the Grand Hotel.  Brisk, salt breeze, and the sweat cools deliciously on Cutler's skin.  He strolls into the Victorian splendour of the lobby, while liveried porters whisk their suitcases inside.

"You've got a sea view," Fergus grumbles.

"And a balcony," Cutler gloats, throwing the door open.  He steps outside, trying not to wince in the sunshine: his sunglasses are buried somewhere in his case.  "What's the matter? Haven't you?"  He already knows the answer – Fergus is across the corridor, along with Louis and Dennis – but he asks the question anyway, just to watch the man's face turn sour.

A sea view and a balcony: this is the life.  They've put him next door to Hal, as well.  Which is exactly where he should be – it's not like he's surprised, or anything – because he's the heir apparent, after all.  Cutler's never met the Brighton crowd, but he's starting to like them already.

"They obviously know who the VIPs are," Cutler smirks.

There's violence etched into the lines on Fergus's forehead, and now he's stalking towards Cutler and his knuckles are clenching white.  The girls aren't going to dance with Cutler if he has a broken nose, and he's shifting onto the balls of his feet, ready to make a run for the door, when Fergus pulls up short.  Cutler looks round and finds Hal frowning at the pair of them.

"We're here for a holiday," Hal tells them, "not a run in with the police.  I don't want any trouble here at the hotel.  None of that fucking 'tomb service' nonsense."  He eyes Cutler's rumpled suit with distaste.  "I want you both dressed for dinner, seven o'clock sharp."

Hal isn't happy.  Hal's disappointed with them.  Hal is giving orders, and expecting them to just fall into line.  Cutler smiles: he knew a holiday would be a good idea.

Cutler slips off his shoes.  He hurls himself onto the bed, rolling on the soft, snowy sheets and sinking into the nest of pillows.  But something around there doesn't smell very sweet, and he's got a nasty feeling that it's him.  It turns out that he's got his own bathroom: en suite, that's what they call it.  There's a big enamelled tub standing on clawed feet, and he sets it running while he peels off his clothes.  The marble tiles are chilly against his feet.  The water eventually starts to cool, but hauling himself out seems too much like hard work.  Cutler wallows, soaking London out of his pores, until his fingers wrinkle like an old man's – and he's never going to know what that's like, not now: he and Hal are going to stay like this forever.  Cutler shivers.  

He glances at his watch – and launches from the tub, sending water sloshing across the floor, all that lovely marble turning slick and slippery as he sprints for the bedroom.  He's going to be late; he needs to sort out his suits, to get them pressed and hung.  But there's no need to panic: that's what they have staff for, in a place like this.  Cutler picks up the telephone.

Seven o'clock sharp, and they're all assembled in Hal's room, perching on the chairs, on the bed, while Hal walks up and down like a general inspecting his troops.

"The local coven has kindly invited us to dinner," Hal tells them.  "I want you all on your best behaviour.  That means no fighting."  He looks at Louis, who simply shrugs.  It's not like Louis actually goes looking for trouble; trouble just seems to have an unerring knack for finding him.  "No arguing."  Fergus grins: he's been around long enough to find out exactly what he can get away with.  "No comedy," Hal says, and Cutler has no idea who that's directed at, because he's busy checking his lapels for the tiniest traces of lint.  "And absolutely no killing our hosts."  Hal smiles toothily.  "Not unless I say so."

That's it, they're dismissed: they get to their feet.  Hal sits down.

"I don't understand," Louis says.  It's a not uncommon phenomenon.  "I thought you said seven o'clock."

"I did."  Hal stretches out an arm and retrieves his newspaper from the table.  "But I think I can afford to be fashionably late.  It's not like they can start without me, is it?"  He turns to the sports pages and begins to read.

Dinner, it eventually turns out, is at a little club tucked away on a side street in Clifton Hill.  They're clearly very careful about their clientèle: Cutler knocks on the plain black door and finds himself staring up at a man who could be Louis' brother.

"Louis, you cunt!" the man roars, and maybe he is a relative, after all.  Clearly, there's no love lost.

"Billy Sullivan.  I don't fuckin' believe it."  Louis is shoving his way forwards, cracking his knuckles, and there's no way Cutler is going to get caught in the middle of those two lumbering idiots.

"I shoulda fuckin' killed you when you were still with the Messina gang," Sullivan growls, the tendons standing rigid in his neck.

"That's enough."  The speaker only comes up to Cutler's shoulder, but the doorman retreats in the face of his anger.

"Is there a problem?"  Hal's voice is soft, his smile as bright and sharp as one of Fergus's knives.

"My apologies, Lord Harry."  The newcomer bows.  He has an Errol Flynn moustache, and something of the same debonair manner gone to seed, but the French accent spoils the illusion.  "It's an honour to have you with us in our little town."

"Anton," Hal says.  "It's been too long.  What is it – fifteen years?"

"Over twenty, my lord."

"It's Hal, remember.  Just Hal."

This Anton might have known Hal longer than Cutler has – hell, everyone's known him longer than Cutler – but he doesn't see why they have to be on first-name terms.  Then Hal is performing the introductions, and he beckons Cutler forwards while the others have to wait their turn.  They finally get to Louis, and it turns out that there's an old feud between the doorman and him.  Something to do with racetrack gangs and a turf way – the narrative is confused, and more than a little confusing: Louis is no raconteur – and neither of the men is inclined to forgive and forget.  Louis glowers at Sullivan as they pass, but they make it inside without any bloodshed.

The noise stops when they walk in; everything stops.  The band sits, instruments drooping in their hands.  The dancers pause, couples slipping apart and turning towards the entrance.  Knives and forks clatter down onto plates as the diners abandon their food and rise to their feet.  Heads bow as they pass and, here and there, someone sinks to their knees.  Which is stupid, because it won't save them if Hal has murder on his mind: Cutler knows that from personal experience.  All the same, it's not often that anyone shows him the respect he deserves, and so what if it's for Hal – for both of them – rather than him.  If Cutler had his way, they'd stay like that: not for long, just another minute or two.  But Hal is smiling and gesturing for them to continue.  False modesty sits surprisingly well on him, although it couldn't quite be mistaken for the real thing.

The band launches into a jaunty number, and the dance floor whirls back into life.  Anton waits until Hal and Cutler are seated before taking his place across from them.  The others are shown to a different table – it's only Cutler who deserves a place at the top table, with Hal – but Cutler's jeer is cut short by a crushing pain in his toes.  It might look for all the world as though Hal's full attention is on their host, but he doesn't take his foot away until Cutler closes his mouth.

"Herrick and that boy of his caused a spot of trouble in Paris," Hal says, while Anton pours the blood.  "It might have turned nasty, if Anton hadn't taken care of things.  He was a commandant in the police at the time."

He doesn't really look like a policeman.  Cutler tries to picture him in uniform, but the closest he can manage is Claude Rains in _Casablanca_.  "So that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Cutler says, and this time he manages to get his foot out of the way before Hal stamps down.  Hal will get him later – one way or another – if he's so inclined, but Cutler has to take his victories where he can find them.

"Hardly."  Anton's moustache seems to bristle at the idea.  "They were tourists.  They thought that they could come into my city and do what they liked, that it wouldn't matter.  They didn't have to live there."  He stops, nervous eyes studying Hal's face.  "No offence, my lord."

"None taken," Hal tells him, and maybe he really, honestly does like the man.  Or maybe this is what it takes to hold onto an ally.

Anton's thoughts seem to be running along similar lines.  "I do hope that you enjoy your little … holiday."  There's the slightest pause, the hint of a question behind the word.

Hal's face is bland, but Cutler has no doubt that he's enjoying the man's fear.  "We're only in Brighton to enjoy your sea air.  I want you to forget that we're even here."

"Would you like someone to show you around?"  It's dangerous, having an Old One pay a visit, but there are potential rewards, as well.  "Show you the sights, the best places to feed."

Hal glances over his shoulder.  Dennis and Fergus are clinking champagne glasses, knocking the stuff back as though it were water.  A waitress in a black satin dress is smiling at Louis – and, god help them, Louis is smiling back and his hand keeps stealing to the woman's arse.

Hal shakes his head.  "I think my boys can manage to entertain themselves."

"I have a treat for you," Anton says, as he calls their waiter over.  "A real French chef, not like the ones you have in London.  I had him brought over from Paris."

"How thoughtful," Hal says and his smile never slips, even though Cutler knows that the only kind of French food he admires wears stockings and Chanel No 5.

Cutler's not overly keen on it either, he remembers, as he wrestles with his lobster.  Then a voice from the stage silences the room as effectively as their earlier appearance: a voice that's somehow sweet and sultry at the same time – Cutler turns and sees a face to match.  He's never heard anyone quite like her.  He's never heard anyone, not even Nat King Cole himself, sing _Unforgettable_ quite so much like they mean it, and his applause is spontaneous.  Hal's too.

"Tell me," Hal asks, "do you always have so many humans in here?"

He inclines his head towards one of the booths, towards a woman draped in what might actually be werewolf fur.  The man she's with is slipping out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, and the woman takes a discreet few mouthfuls without so much as smudging her lipstick.

"We're a very broad-minded kind of town."  There's a hint of defiance in Anton's voice – or it might even be pride.

"The original Sodom-on-sea."  It sounds like Hal approves.  "And you have them working for you, as well."  His eyes are on that singer, and of course he noticed her – you'd have to be dead not to.  Well, deader.

Anton shrugs.  "Lena is safe.  She came over from Germany before the war.  Sings better than Dietrich."

Which isn't difficult.  She's a damn sight better looking than Dietrich, too, swaying ever so gently in time to the music, and the sequins on her dress are dazzling when they catch the light.

"Bring her over," Hal murmurs, "when she's done."

Anton hesitates.  "She's popular," he protests.  "She'll be difficult to replace."

Hal stares at him, and he's still smiling, but there's something frozen about his smile now, and Cutler sits up straighter in his chair.  Hal isn't used to hearing the word "no" and, judging by the way he's squirming, Anton is painfully aware of that.  Then he beckons to the maître d' and whispers something in his ear – and that's that.  When Cutler calls it a night, he looks back and he sees the woman shimmering into the seat he's just vacated.

Cutler's hotel room is dark – and bloody freezing.  He hurries to shut the balcony doors.  He falls into that nice soft bed, and the bed's cold, too.  Cold and empty.  But tomorrow he's going to have his pick of all the girls in Brighton.  Cutler falls asleep with his head full of beaches and girls in shiny black dresses bringing him an endless supply of blood.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August, 1954. Hal hasn't been himself lately, and maybe a change will do him good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title taken from the music hall song by John A Glover-Kind.

Cutler startles awake to the sound of screaming.  An urgent, wordless cry, repeated over and over.  A woman's voice, and it's coming from next door: from Hal's room.  Cutler scrambles out of bed – and stops, poised, heart racing violently.  Hal said that he didn't want any trouble in the hotel.  But if Hal's changed his mind, if he's in there draining some girl right now – but he can't be.  Hal's not careless enough to let a victim scream, not when there are witnesses around.  Not unless there's something very wrong.

The noise is getting louder, and if Cutler doesn't do something the staff are going to come knocking.  There's a tremor in his hand as he reaches for his dressing gown.  And then he hears it: _thump-thump_.  A rhythmical banging, getting faster: _thump-thump-thump_.  Now the screaming turns to moaning, and the moans shape into words – into a panted "God! Yes! Harder!" - and arousal flushes warmly through Cutler.  He can recognise the voice, and Lena is calling Hal's name as enthusiastically as she belted out her songs the night before.  Cutler flees to the bathroom.

The drumming of the shower helps to drown out the noise.  Cutler picks up the soap and flannel and scrubs at his armpits, at his chest.  Down across his stomach towards his hardening cock, but he's not going to toss himself off, not today – today he's going to get the real thing.  Cutler grits his teeth.  He lathers soap behind his balls and into the thatch of hair, and he can still hear the frantic sounds of pleasure, rising to a climax.  The flannel splats into the tub.  He wraps soap-slick fingers around his cock and has to bite his lip against the groan that spills out of him.  Cutler closes his eyes and pictures them – pictures her.  Head thrown back, breasts bouncing as he takes her, hard and ruthless and selfish – but she likes that, bracing herself against the headboard, trying to pull him closer, deeper, and she calls his name out when she comes.

Cutler hunches over, shuddering through his orgasm, clutching at the wall for support.  He rinses the congealing strands from his fingers.  There's more, glistening whitely on the tiles, and he cringes at the thought of the cleaner finding it later, so he retrieves the flannel and wipes away the mess.  When he returns to the bedroom, the room next door has fallen mercifully silent, but by the time he's dressed and setting off for breakfast the noise is starting up again.  Suddenly, having the room next door to their leader doesn't seem like such a wonderful idea.

"Morning, wanker."  Cutler flinches guiltily, but it's just Fergus's way of saying hello.  The man is almost cheerful today.

Dennis, too: "Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside," he sings.  "Shall we take a stroll along the prom, gentlemen?"

"What about Hal?" Louis asks.

"He's otherwise engaged," Cutler tells him.  And if the big lug doesn't exactly understand, the others certainly do.

"Hal's back on form,"  Fergus grins, and Cutler's sure he isn't imagining the relief in the man's voice.  It looks like he's not the only one who's been worried about Hal, and thank god the man seems to have left his foul temper behind in the capital.

The beach is rapidly filling.  Children squeal and splash along the water's edge; dads and granddads wrestle with deckchairs, staking claim to their little patches of shingle.  Simple pleasures, and Cutler watches them almost enviously from behind a barrier of tinted glass.  Two young blondes whisper and giggle as they walk past; their bathing suits leave little to the imagination.

Fergus winks, and nudges Cutler.  "I'm starting to like this holiday.  Think I'll come back for some of that."  Food rationing finally ended last month, and the whole country seems to be out enjoying itself.  Nobody is going to miss a few day trippers.

They amble towards the pier.  They're surrounded by the shrieks of people hurtling down the helter-skelter, by the thump and electric crackle of the dodgems.  Cutler and Dennis jump into one car, Fergus and Louis into another, and a young couple end up as collateral damage when Louis steers the thing as though he's behind the wheel of the Bentley.  It turns out that Dennis is a dab hand at the coconut shy: he wins two of the things.  And has no idea what he's going to do with them.  Louis cups one in each hand and jiggles them suggestively in front of his chest, but even Fergus rolls his eyes at that.  Dennis ends up giving them to a little brother and sister – who promptly run, wailing, to their parents.

"There's gratitude, for you."  Dennis shakes his head, but Cutler doesn't blame the children: he'd have been scared of Dennis, too, at that age.  Still is, sometimes, not that he'd let on.

The breeze carries the waft of fish and chips: salt and vinegar, and grease.  They buy some for their lunch and eat them sitting on an old, wrought-iron bench, watching the ships inch along out in the Channel.  The afternoon sun is fierce on Cutler's pasty skin, and it makes him wince in spite of the sunglasses, so they head for the shelter of the amusement arcade.  Fergus discovers a punch-ball machine, and he and Louis take it in turns to display their manly prowess with their fists.  Louis proves to be the stronger – which comes as no surprise to anyone but Fergus.

"Never mind," Cutler consoles him, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"Fuck you," Fergus snarls.

"Kind of you to offer, but you're really not my type."

A group of teenage lads is eyeing them, drawn to the promise of violence, and normally Fergus would be happy to oblige.  But none of them wants to find out just exactly what Hal will do if they start a brawl on the pier.

"It's too bloody hot, anyway," Fergus shrugs.

Madam Zasha, the gypsy fortune teller, has seen better days, but Cutler drops a penny into the slot and takes the little card the machine spits out.   _Wealth does not always bring happiness_.  No kidding – but Cutler's tried being hard up, and he knows which he prefers.  Anyway, he doesn't believe in any of that rubbish: there's a stronger force than fate controlling his future.  He tosses the card into the sea and walks away.

They gather in Dennis's room just before dinnertime – not that actual food is on the menu this evening.  Fergus has changed into his newest suit, and his hair is slicked into place.  Cutler's done his best, as well, although the damp sea air has curled his hair into a tangle.  And Louis – Louis is shaved and pressed, and he's even wearing a diamond tiepin.

"Do I detect a subtle aroma of cologne?" Dennis asks.

"I'm seeing' that bird from the club."

"What bird?" Fergus snaps.

"Maggie.  The waitress."  The one with the shiny satin arse, but Cutler refuses to be jealous of Louis, of all people.

"You charmer."  Dennis pats the man on the back, but Fergus looks like he's taking the matter as a personal affront.

"What's wrong with the usual?" he asks.  "Stick to humans: you can shag 'em and kill 'em.  If a woman is still around afterwards, she's bound to cause trouble.  You don't see me going all soppy over some piece of skirt, do you? And look at Hal."

"What about me?"  Hal pads in on bare feet – bare legs, too, and apparently he's wearing nothing underneath that dressing gown.  By the look of him, he's only just hauled himself out of bed.

"Do you want a hand with the body?" Fergus asks, nodding in the direction of Hal's room, although it's usually Louis who ends up doing the heavy lifting.  Hal likes to keep a tidy house, and they bury their corpses quickly.

But Hal is shaking his head.  "Lena's working this evening."

"You didn't kill her?" Cutler blurts, and Hal's eyebrows tighten into a warning line.

"Bloody hell," Fergus snorts.  "It must be love."

Then Hal is moving, advancing, and Fergus stumbles backwards, hands lifting to defend himself – but Hal just snatches the cigarette from between his lips and sucks in a lungful of smoke.  Fergus straightens his jacket; Dennis smooths a hand over his beard; nobody wants to make eye contact.  The smoke trickles back out of Hal's nostrils, and his mouth curves into a smile.  He's in control again – on the surface, anyway.

Hal waves the cigarette in a vaguely regal gesture.  "Noblesse oblige, and all that.  And it never hurts to have someone owe you a favour."  He stretches luxuriously.  "I've worked up quite an appetite.  Dennis, you drive tonight.  We'll leave the bodies at the club and let Anton get rid of them for us."

They end up in a pub not far from the railway station.  It's packed with day trippers, eager to squeeze in one last pint before they have to dash for their last trains home.  The beer's too warm, and too flat, and Cutler watches enviously as Hal and Fergus close in on a woman standing by herself.  Perhaps she's lost her friends; perhaps she's waiting for someone.  Either way, she decided to step inside – and that's the last mistake she'll ever make.

A couple are trying to push through the crowd around the bar, and Cutler steps back to let them pass.  Steps back into a woman in a floral dress, and the next thing he knows, he's wearing her gin and tonic down the sleeve of his jacket.  But she smiles away his apologies, and she lets him buy her another drink – and another after that.  She laughs at his jokes, even the ones he knows aren't funny, and Dennis slips the car keys into his hand when he leads her towards the door.

"I'm not sure," she says, once they're out in the fresh air.  She still has her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, but her feet are dragging.  Then they turn the corner, and she sees Hal's Bentley, and he watches her reluctance melt away.  Women always do that when they see Hal's car, or Hal's smile, or Hal's expensive clothes.  But she's hurrying now, pulling him along in her wake, and he consoles himself with the fact that she chose him before she ever saw the car.

There's plenty of room in the back seat, and the road's deserted.  Cutler can afford to take his time.  She drags him close and gasps his name when she comes: his first name, his real name – the one he hasn't heard in such a long time.  It's not like she's going to get the chance to tell it to anyone else.  It's dark, and she doesn't see the change, doesn't know anything about it until he's biting into her throat.  The door opens, but it's only Dennis, wanting his share.  There's plenty to go around, and Cutler doesn't want to make a mess of Hal's upholstery.

It's late by the time that Cutler gets back to his room.  The door's unlocked, and he pushes it open, standing nervously on the threshold while he flicks on the light.  Louis is sprawled in the armchair.  God only knows what he's doing there, or even how he got in, but he's breathing out pure whisky fumes and that explains a lot.

"Oy! Wake up."

Cutler grabs hold of one meaty shoulder and shakes, but Louis simply grunts.  Cutler glares at him, debating – and, what the hell, Louis isn't likely to remember.  He slaps the man in the face.  Louis' head lolls back and he starts to snore.  Cutler takes a deep breath.  He wraps his arms around Louis' chest, tight up under the armpits – and he never, ever wants to have to do this again – but the man's a dead weight and there's no way that Cutler's going to be able to lift him, let alone carry him.  Cutler slips into his pyjamas and turns out the light.

He's woken by the mattress moving underneath him: there's somebody climbing into bed with him.  He breathes in cheap aftershave and he remembers: Louis.  Cutler rolls over, groping for the lamp, but a strong hand is dragging him back.

"Maggie," Louis mumbles, settling half on top of him.

That's when Cutler realises that Louis sleeps in the nude.  He thrashes, but there's seventeen stone of vampire pinning him, and when he tries to break free his arm is wrenched so sharply that he's afraid it's going to snap.  Cutler goes still.  Louis' distillery breath is hot against his cheek, and the man's cock is pressed against his thigh – and, thank god, it's limp.  The minute Cutler feels so much as a twitch, he's going to scream for help, Fergus and the management – and even Hal – be damned.

The first snore rumbles out of Louis' chest; on the other side of the wall, the headboard beats out the rhythm like a metronome, and the very vocal vocalist starts up her performance.  It's going to be a long night.

Cutler dreams that he's drowning.  The surface of the ocean shimmers far above him, out of reach, and the current is pulling him deeper.  A mermaid with glittering scales sings to him as he sinks.  The water presses in on him, crushing his chest, pressing the air from his lungs – except it's not the water doing that, it's Louis.  And it isn't a mermaid singing, it's Hal, whistling _Unforgettable_.

"Wakey, wakey, Cutler.  Rise and shine."  Hal is obnoxiously cheerful for this early in the morning, and it looks like it's all Lena's fault.

"Time is it?" Cutler croaks.

"Nearly lunch."  Hal's eyes drift to the lump of fat and muscle that's currently sweating all over Cutler's back.  "Did Louis keep you up most of the night? Don't worry" – Hal actually bloody winks and, lunchtime or not, it's far too early to deal with him in this sort of mood – "I'll keep your little secret safe."

Humiliation stings Cutler into action, and he finds the desperate strength to roll Louis onto the other side of the mattress.  He hisses in a painful breath.

"I think he might have broken a rib."

"I want you at the club tonight," Hal tells him, and Cutler scrambles upright in spite of the pain.  "Anton wants to talk politics, and you should be there."  He will be, and he'll make sure that Hal doesn't regret taking him.

"What time?"

"Be ready for eight.  And, this time, I do mean eight."  It sounds serious, if Hal is prepared to be punctual, but the man pauses in the doorway for one parting shot.  "I wouldn't have had Louis down as a cuddler."

Dennis is still missing in action from the night before, but Fergus answers his knock and they go down to lunch together.  Louis surfaces while they're drinking their coffee.  He looks sheepishly at Cutler, who's fidgeting nearly out of his skin at the thought of their sleeping arrangements becoming common knowledge.  Louis helps himself to Fergus's coffee and, for once, Fergus doesn't complain: Louis has the greyish pallor of a corpse, and his need is clearly greater than theirs.  But Louis isn't one to feel sorry for himself – or anyone else, for that matter – and when Cutler suggests another walk along the seafront, he grunts his assent.

"Last night –" Louis whispers, when Fergus is paying a visit to the facilities.

"Never happened," Cutler tells him, and mercifully Louis isn't always quite as dumb as he looks.

The three of them end up in the aquarium, staring into tanks containing the wonders of the deep.  Well, some very sorry-looking seahorses, and a tank full of lobsters that puts him in mind of a seafood restaurant.

"It's nothin' but fuckin' fish," Louis complains.  He'd probably have been happier with a chimps' tea party.

"That's because it's an aquarium, you prick," Cutler points out, and Louis doesn't even have the energy to hit him.  Cutler suspects the hot, brackish air in the place isn't doing much for the man's hangover.

"There's nothing in this one," Fergus grumbles, staring into a tank supposedly containing an octopus.

Louis leans over the tank, and Cutler thinks he's peering among the rocks, trying to spot the occupant.  Then Louis heaves up the contents of his stomach.  There's a fair amount of blood in there, along with the food and, while the manager dithers between calling for an ambulance and calling the police, they beat a hasty retreat.

"Shoulda let me sort 'im out," Louis says, reviving once he's out in the fresh air.  He cracks his knuckles and casts a dark glance back towards the aquarium.  Louis is stubborn, and he's been known to hold a grudge, but luckily he doesn't have any sort of an attention span.  "Look! Johnny Kwango's in town."

"Johnny who?" Cutler asks.

"Sounds like some sort of venereal disease," Fergus sniggers.

But Louis isn't listening: he's staring, enraptured, at a garish poster.  "Johnny Kwango, the wrestler.  You shoulda seen him head-butt Les Kellett that time in Blackpool.  I bet the fucker couldn't breathe right for a week."  Louis squints at the small print.  "It's tomorrow night.  Who wants to go?"

"I've got better things to do than watch a bunch of blokes in leotards," Fergus sneers, and Louis turns to Cutler.

"I've given it up for Lent," Cutler tells him, and he watches Louis' forehead crinkle."

"But it isn't Lent," he says.

Cutler's tired, but there's no time for a nap when they get back to the hotel, so he runs a bath and tries to soak away the aches of the night before.  He towels himself dry, and slicks his unruly curls, and he's feeling ready to face whatever vampire politics has to throw at him.  Which turns out to be a lot of tedious detail about territory and complicated financial dealings.  And the events in Bristol: Hal is worried about Herrick, not that he'll admit it.  Not to Cutler, and certainly not to Anton.  This is Cutler's chance to prove himself to Hal, to come up with some sort of brilliant suggestion, but he can't think of a single thing to say.  So he sits and listens, until it's clear that neither man is actually ready to do anything about the situation, and then he turns his attention to the stage.

Lena is singing: something husky and French that's a perfect match for her smoky eyes and her simple black dress.  Even Hal pauses and, for a moment, there's something softer than the usual hunger on his face.  The evening drags by in talk of the good old days – which don't sound so bloody wonderful to Cutler – but the champagne is good, and he's starting to develop a taste for the stuff.  Then there's the inevitable, endless stream of anecdotes, and when Anton is called away to deal with some little crisis Cutler can't even pretend to be disappointed.  Hal manages to console himself, as well: Lena is finishing her set, and Hal beckons her down from the stage and leads her into a foxtrot.  And Cutler's getting tired of this, of watching – and listening – while Hal has his fun.  He reaches for the decanter.

"You're with him, aren't you? Hal Yorke."

"If you want an introduction, then you'll have to join the queue."  Cutler looks up into a pretty face, and maybe that was harsh.  "I'm sorry.  That was uncalled for."

"Bad day?" she asks, as he holds a chair for her.

"Politics," he tells her, although that's only half the truth.  "Nick Cutler," he says, holding out his hand.  "Let's order some more champagne."

Her name is Norma.  She's young and giggly, and very human: Cutler's eyes keep wandering to the pulsing of her jugular.  She's wearing a low-cut dress and, when she leans forwards to rest a hand on his knee, he gets a glimpse of something far more enticing than her throat.

Hal is still dancing, hand resting just above the swell of Lena's buttocks, leaning close as he whispers in her ear.  If there's one thing that Cutler can do as well as his maker, it's dance.  He wobbles to his feet and maybe, just maybe, he's had a little too much champagne.  But he leads the way to the dance floor, and he slips his arm around his partner's waist.  He pulls her close, but she doesn't complain so he pulls her closer still.

Norma giggles as he helps her into her coat; she giggles when he takes her up to his hotel room.  She giggles far too much, and it's getting on his nerves, but maybe that means she'll be a screamer, too.  He'd like to put on a bit of a show.  But she turns out to be the quiet type, all breathy moans and lip biting, and even when she comes she doesn't make a sound that could be heard beyond the four walls.  Anyway, Cutler doesn't even know if Hal is in.

So he takes it slower the second time, rocking into her slowly until she's thrusting back against him, urging him on.  He stares at the slick sweetness of her neck, hearing the blood surge, hot and frantic, in her veins – but he remembers Hal's warning, and Hal has a hold on him that's stronger even than the hunger.  Just to be on the safe side, he keeps going, and going again, until he's too tired to do anything but collapse into sleep.  Maybe virtue is its own reward, but in the morning Norma gives him the most spectacular blow job.  
 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August, 1954. Hal hasn't been himself lately, and maybe a change will do him good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title taken from the music hall song by John A Glover-Kind.

Cutler finds Hal breakfasting alone.  "Morning," Cutler greets him, snatching a slice of toast from the rack.  "Lovely day."  And it is, for all sorts of reasons, not least of which is the fact that Norma is meeting him for dinner later.

Hal's eyes narrow in suspicion.  "What have you done now?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," Cutler retorts.  He studies Hal's face, but the man seems more interested in his bacon and eggs than in anything Cutler might have to say.  "You know how you've got a proper, live woman.  Well, I've got one, too."  Hal's knife and fork stop in mid-air.

"You?"  Hal waves his knife in Cutler's direction, and Cutler edges out of range, just in case.  But Hal drops his cutlery back on his plate, and that's better than Cutler was expecting.

"It's not so bad, is it?" Cutler asks.  "Letting them live."  Hal doesn't answer, just stares down at the table, and maybe he understands better than he's letting on.  Maybe that singer isn't such a rarity, after all.  "Do you ever wonder if you could get used to it?"

"Cutler."  There's some alien emotion quivering in Hal's voice.  The man leans closer, conspiratorial, and Cutler shifts forwards to catch what he says.  "Don't get attached," Hal hisses, and his hand closes crushingly on Cutler's.

"It's just a bit of fun," Cutler gasps, and this is excessive, even by Hal's mercurial standards.  "I'm only doing the same thing you –"

"No fuck ups, Cutler."  Hal's grip tightens until Cutler is sure that he can feel the bones grating together, and he wants to yell, to beg – but there are other people in the restaurant, and now the waiter's coming over.  "I cannot allow any fuck ups."  Hal lets go.

The waiter feigns not to notice the moisture that Cutler brushes from his eyes.  He stands, pad and pencil at the ready, but Cutler's lost his appetite.

"Has she given you the elbow already?" Dennis asks, as Cutler thumps a deckchair down next to his.

"Hal."

Which says it all, really, and Dennis nods sagely as Cutler wrestles the chair into submission and hurls himself down into the thing.  Dennis has a book, but Cutler doesn't have anything with him – isn't much of a reader at the best of times – and it's a long, hot trudge up to the newspaper kiosk.  Cutler squirms: deckchairs always have that annoying bar that digs into the back of the legs.  Dennis ignores him.  Cutler cranes his neck, trying to see what the other man is reading.

"It's _Brighton Rock_ ," Dennis tells him.

"Ha ha.  Very funny."

"It's about a man who finds himself trapped in a hell of his own making."

"No doubt it's a barrel of laughs."  But Dennis is looking at him like he expects some sort of response.  "And you're telling me this because?"

"Because I fished it out of the bin in Hal's room."

"Right."  Dennis is trying to tell him something, but Cutler's never been good at cryptic crosswords.  "Which means what, exactly?"  But Dennis just smiles that deceptively gentle smile of his, and maybe Cutler's being paranoid.  Spending time with Hal will do that to a man.

"Fancy an ice cream?" Dennis asks.

They eat their cornets in easy silence, and Dennis turns back to his novel.  Cutler wriggles lower in his chair.  It's not exactly comfortable, but Cutler's tired – has hardly had a wink of sleep for the last two nights – and it's far too hot to actually do anything.  At least there's a breeze coming in off the sea.  Cutler lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.

When Cutler wakes up, the first thing he does is sprint to Dennis's room.  "Open up!"  He hammers on the door.  "I know you're in there, you fucker."

The latch clicks, the door opens, and Dennis has the gall to stand there and laugh.  Cutler knows it can't be good – he can feel his skin burning – and he rushes to the mirror to see just how bad the damage is.  Except he can't see a thing: of course he can't, and he's no idea how he could he have forgotten that.

"Why did you leave me there all fucking morning?" Cutler snarls.

"I'm not your nanny," Dennis snarls right back, and Cutler can do nothing but glare.

"My nose feels all crispy," he whines.  He really needs to come up with a way of avoiding Fergus for the next couple of days.  Hal, too.

"What's going on?"  Speak of the devil: it's Fergus – with Louis following behind – and this really can't get any better.  "What time are – bloody hell, what happened to you?"  Cutler meets his laughter with a dignified silence.  "I've got..."  But Fergus has to stop, clutching at Louis and wiping a tear from his eye.  He tries again: "I've got a sudden craving for lobster.  Can't think why."

"It's not funny, Fergus.  I'm seeing Norma tonight."

"Looks like we're down to three, then.  And I can't say I'm sorry that we haven't got to look at your mug all evening."

"Two."  That's Louis, and they all turn to stare.  "I'm takin' Maggie to the wrestlin'."

"The last of the great romantics," Dennis laughs, but Fergus isn't amused.

"Not you, too.  You've all gone bloody native."

Cutler's face is starting to smart, and he's sick of listening to Fergus giving advice on everybody's love life, so he retreats to his own room and tries splashing water on his face.  He supposes, in theory, that he could hold his face underwater for as long as he liked, but he doesn't want to take the risk.  Burnt and drowned in one day, and he might just have to stake himself.

"Cutler."  Dennis's deep voice resonates through the door.  "Maybe you should try putting a cold flannel on it."  It's got to be worth a shot: Cutler lies down on his bed and presses the wet fabric to his face.  For a few moments, there's blessed relief.

 _Thump-thump-thump_ : Hal is at it again, and Hal would never get himself into this situation.  He's probably never been sunburnt in his life.  And there goes Lena, right on cue, and what does Hal do to make her scream like that? He's seen the man's cock – only in the urinals, of course, and it's not like he was really looking – and it's nothing out of the ordinary.  It must be all those years of practice.  The screaming cuts off abruptly – Hal must have finally grown tired of the racket – and Cutler is left to change in peace.

He's chosen a little trattoria: like the champagne, Italian food is a taste he's starting to acquire.  The manager is too polite to stare, but heads turn as he leads Cutler to a table.  A table right at the back, next to the kitchen, as though Cutler is repulsive enough to put people off their food.  He could complain, but he doesn't have the stomach for making any more of a scene.  He orders a glass of wine to pass the time – he shouldn't be surprised that Norma's the kind of girl to keep a man waiting, but it feels like everybody's staring and he'd very much like them to kindly fuck off.  On second thoughts, Cutler gets the waiter to leave the bottle.

"Oh my god, what happened to your face?"  Norma isn't giggling tonight, looks genuinely shocked, in fact – no, not shocked: embarrassed, and she flinches when he tries to give her a kiss.  "You're not going to sit here looking like that?"  The waiter pulls out her chair, but she's backing away.  "You don't think I'm going to sit here with you?"

Cutler tries to follow her out, but there's the matter of the wine, and by the time he's fumbled some money from his wallet she's halfway down the street.

"Norma," he shouts, but there are people turning to stare, so he trots after her.  She's going as fast as her heels will allow, stilettos clattering on the pavement, but he's right behind her and he grabs her by the elbow.  "Norma, wait."

"I thought you were supposed to be somebody.  The big man, down from London."  Her face looks jaundiced in the yellow glow of the street lights, and she doesn't look so pretty now.  "You should see yourself – oh, that's right, you can't."

She's giggling again, giggling at him.  And then she isn't, because he's pushing her into an alley, and he's shoving her against the wall.  She thinks she can goad him like that, thinks she can get away with it – laughing at him, making him look a fool – and all the time the blood is clamouring in her throat.  She doesn't have the chance to scream before he clamps a hand across her mouth, and then the blood is gushing hot and heady over his tongue.

She crumples to the floor.  He really shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have let her get to him like that.  He needs to get the body away from here, but his car is still parked outside the restaurant.  The restaurant where they had a fight, where the staff and the diners all got a look at him: the man with the sunburnt face.  If he's very lucky, that's all they'll remember about him.  Cutler starts the walk back, legs jerky with the urge to run, keys clutched in his trembling fingers.  He prays that the car will start on the first try.  It does, and maybe things are going to work out, after all.  

Cutler reaches the alley – and keeps driving, past the police car and the flustered bobbies.  Past the sobbing woman and her haggard, anxious husband.  Past the single, pale hand that seems to be trying to claw its way out from under the tarpaulin – and all that Cutler can think is: Hal is not going to be pleased.

Cutler taps timidly on the man's door.  There's no reply.  Maybe Hal is out; maybe he's asleep.  Maybe this can wait till morning, but the longer Cutler leaves it the worse it's going to be.  And now he can hear voices: that's Fergus, and Louis too, and they don't sound happy.  Cutler turns the handle.  All four of them are in there, a frozen tableau: Hal, lounging on the bed; Fergus, paused mid-stride; Louis, in the armchair beneath the standard lamp, with Dennis hovering over him.  Four frowning faces, turned in Cutler's direction – they know, they already know – and Cutler has to stop himself bolting straight out again.  Then Fergus resumes his angry pacing, and Dennis presses an ice pack to Louis' swollen eye, and Cutler sags against the doorframe in relief.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"Louis took that bird of his to the wrestling," Fergus says.

"She's got one hell of a right hook."

Louis glares, and he's half out of his chair before he remembers that he's hurting.  He lowers himself gingerly back down, clutching at his ribs, and it looks like it's more than just his face that took a beating.

"It turns out that the lovely Maggie wasn't strictly single," Hal explains.  "It also turns out that the man that Louis has been cuckolding was none other than Sullivan."  Cutler stares blankly.  "The doorman."  The slab of muscle who'd blocked the entrance to the club – Louis' old enemy.  "Who also happens to have had a ticket for the wrestling.  So when that gentleman inevitably bumped into our lovebirds … well, let's just say that the violence wasn't confined to the ring."

"Looks painful," Cutler commiserates.

Now that he's closer, he can see the split lip, the redness on Louis' jaw that's going to blossom into a spectacular bruise.  But Cutler's got problems of his own, and Hal is already in a bad mood.  He really doesn't want to have to admit it, not with the others there, but he can't afford to let Hal hear it from someone else first.  Cutler clears his throat.

"Hal, I –"

The telephone shrills, cutting him off, and he can't talk over it.  Hal's staring at him, and the man's frowning again: frowning at Cutler now, and Hal has always had an unerring ability to divine Cutler's mistakes.

"It's Anton," Dennis says.  "And I don't think he's very happy."  Hal holds out his hand, and Dennis places the receiver into it.

"Anton," Hal says, "it's always a pleasure."  His voice is as smooth as ever, even though his mouth is pinching into a hard, unforgiving line.  "I see."  And Cutler knows, he just knows, what Hal is hearing on the other end of the phone.  "This is an unfortunate turn of events.  I'll send someone to help out, make sure everything is tidied up."  That bland, awful mask is freezing into place on Hal's features.  "It won't happen again."  He hands the receiver back to Dennis.

"Hal, I …" Cutler tries again, but he falters in the face of Hal's cold scrutiny.  He tilts up his chin, waiting for the verdict – no, that's already in – waiting for his sentence.

"Louis," Hal says, although his gaze is still pinning Cutler in place, "go and clean yourself up."

And Cutler has to look away, can't bear to see his failure reflected back at him from Hal's face.  He watches Louis haul himself up out of his chair and take a wincing step towards the bathroom.

"Not in there," Hal snaps, red anger melting the mask, and Louis recoils.  "I don't want any more of your blood on my fucking carpet."  Louis hobbles away.  "Dennis.  Anton needs a hand with cleaning up a little indiscretion.  Make sure you give him every possible assistance."  Dennis simply nods – but he spares a glance for Cutler, and that might even be pity on his weathered face.  "Fergus, go with him.  And I don't want any more trouble, do you understand?"

"All right, Hal."  Even Fergus knows to keep his mouth shut when Hal's like this.  It's Cutler who seems to have a special talent for annoying the man.

The silence closes in, tightening around Cutler's throat until he swallows convulsively.  Hal doesn't move, but it's a familiar, poised stillness that wakes bad memories, and Cutler's mouth is dry.

"Cutler," Hal says.  He's on his feet now and Cutler flinches, but at least the waiting's over.  "What am I going to do with you?"

Hal's hand clamps onto Cutler's shoulder, and there's nothing remotely friendly about the gesture.  But Cutler doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know whether he's even supposed to answer.  Whether Hal expects an apology – and surely it can't do any harm.

"It was an accident," he blurts.  "I couldn't help myself."

"Why couldn't you keep it simple? Just fuck her and kill her."  

This time, Hal doesn't want an answer – in fact, he almost seems to have forgotten Cutler's in the room.  The hand that's resting on Cutler's shoulder trembles ever so slightly before Hal snatches it back.  And now Hal's turning away, and Cutler can't see his face but there's a rigidity to his shoulders that sits wrongly on him.

"Christ, what a mess," Hal breathes, and perhaps this situation with Herrick is worse than Cutler realised.  Or perhaps this is somehow Lena's fault, although Cutler can't imagine any woman actually choosing to finish with Hal.  "Go to your room," Hal snaps, and of all the things the man could do to him he's choosing this: sending him off to his bedroom like a naughty child.  Cutler ought to feel relieved, but this is his fault, and that knowledge bites deeper than the fear.

"Let me help," Cutler begs.  "I can fix this."

"To your room," Hal yells, and Cutler hurries away.  But Hal is right behind him, and he should have known it wouldn't be that simple.  "All that blood seems to have made you careless."  Hal lifts the key out of Cutler's hand, and his laugh is high and brittle.  "Let's see if hunger will sharpen your mind.  A day or two ought to do the trick."  Hal closes the door and Cutler hears the key turn in the lock.

Cutler's hungry.  Which is ridiculous, because he drank his fill no more than an hour or two ago – but simply knowing what lies ahead is enough to make his stomach ache.  Of course Hal had to tell him: anyone experienced in torture knows that it's more effective when you show the victim the instrument of their suffering in advance.

Cutler huddles beneath the blankets and listens to his watch ticking away the seconds.  He listens to the footsteps in the room above, to the drunken laughter on the seafront.  He listens to Dennis and Fergus share a terse good night – it's late by the time they've done whatever it is they had to do – and he listens to their doors click shut across the landing.  All he hears is silence from the room next door.  He waits for the nightly screams, for the thumping of the headboard – but the silence stretches on, and maybe Lena has found someone else, after all.

The night crawls emptily by, and the dawn breaks greyly – no, it's not grey, it only feels that way.  Outside the sun is shining, and another train-load of pallid Londoners is heading for the beach, on their way to have fun while he's trapped in here.  But he doesn't have to be: he could knot the sheets together and tie them to the balcony, climb to freedom.  Get into his car; get away.

Cutler runs a bath instead, and tries to let the heat seep into him, to let it drive out the chill that's settled in his marrow.  He tries to ignore the way his stomach growls.  There's nothing to get dressed for, so he lounges in his dressing gown, just like Hal, but it isn't long before he's covered in goosebumps and starting to shiver.  Cutler stands in front of the wardrobe and amuses himself by choosing a suit, a shirt and a tie to match.  No one's going to see, but it passes another ten minutes.

Cutler's not fond of his own company, so he goes over to the balcony again and watches the cars arriving at the hotel.  An MG roadster, with a set of golf clubs in the luggage rack: probably some executive here for a weekend away from the wife.  An Austin-Healey 100 in perfect, gleaming white.  A Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, driven by a uniformed chauffeur, and Cutler hurtles back inside.  He shouldn't let it get to him like this: his Zodiac is a nice, solid car, and a huge step up from the rust bucket he drove before.  But it's no Rolls-Royce, no Bentley, and Cutler wants to own a car like that, not just to ride in Hal's.

But right now he'd settle for that: to go for a drive in the Bentley, to get outside, to talk to somebody other than himself.  To get his mind off the thirst, off the brimming decanters at the club, the rows of bottles in the shadowy cellar back home.  Off the little flask that he knows Dennis carries in his jacket, despite Hal's warnings.  Cutler's mouth waters painfully, and he'd swear that he can smell the taint of death.

Cutler lies on his bed, trapped in a no-man's-land between sleep and waking, nothing but skin stretched around hunger.  The shadows are starting to lengthen, but he can't spend another night here on his own.  Then he hears it: voices in Hal's room, angry and urgent; voices out in the corridor.  Then the snap of a key in the lock, and Fergus is scowling down at him.  Cutler's on his feet so quickly his head swims, and his heart hammers with returning panic.

"Is it the police?" he asks.

"Forget that, it's sorted," Fergus barks.  "You'd better come through.  Louis is dead."  
 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August, 1954.  Hal hasn't been himself lately, and maybe a change will do him good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  Title taken from the [music hall song](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Do_Like_To_be_Beside_the_Seaside) by John A Glover-Kind.

The bell dings and the lift door wheezes open.  Anton steps out, and there's another man behind him: a full head taller and with muscles straining the seams of his jacket.  Not Sullivan, thank god, but another one of the bruisers from the club.  Fergus is itching for an excuse, for a provocation, and nothing – not even Hal's orders – would have stopped him if Sullivan had shown his face.  Fergus steps directly into the man's path.

"Not you," Fergus growls, and his hand keeps twitching towards the less than subtly hidden stake in his pocket.

Anton nods and the big gorilla drops back.  "Go and wait in the car," Anton tells him.  He wouldn't exactly be inconspicuous, loitering among the chintz and the brass-potted aspidistras.

Fergus leads the way and Anton follows, looking like a man walking to his own execution.  Maybe he thinks that he is – and Cutler's not about to disabuse him of that notion: it's the least he deserves, after what happened to Louis.  Besides, Hal will have his hide if Anton isn't brought before him suitably humbled.

Hal: the man is waiting on the balcony, with his back towards the room.  It's a very dramatic effect, with the curtains billowing, but the breeze is blowing fresh from the sea and Cutler shivers.  Lack of blood is making him feel the chill.  Fergus closes the door behind them and stands with his back braced against it.  Louis was his recruit, and it's perfectly clear what he'll do to Anton, given half a chance – and the Frenchman doesn't know that Hal has no intention of allowing him that chance.  Dennis hangs his jacket on the bed post – there's a metallic clang, a suspicious bulge in the pocket, and Cutler salivates at the thought of what that little flask contains – and then he's making a show of rolling up his sleeves.  The stage is set.

"Lord Hal," Anton says to the man's back.  "I do hope we can find a resolution to this regrettable incident."

Anton isn't smiling – that would hardly be appropriate, under the circumstances – but he's doing a very passable impression of a man secure in his position, a man who's confident that he can iron out a little misunderstanding.  Then Hal turns, and Anton sees his face, and that confidence turns brittle.

"Fergus thinks that we should kill you," Hal remarks, giving every impression that he's considering the idea.  "He thinks that we ought to make an example."

A set of knuckles cracks loudly, and Cutler looks instinctively towards Louis.  But it isn't Louis, it's Fergus – and suddenly Cutler misses the big idiot, and maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Fergus took matters into his own hands.  Louis always enjoyed this part: looking tough, scaring Hal's enemies into line.  And not just his enemies, either.  But you don't get where Anton is by being a pushover, and the man knows Hal well enough to realise he despises a coward.

"These things happen," Anton shrugs.  "And neither of our boys was entirely blameless."

"These things don't happen to my people."  

Which isn't entirely true, and Anton knows it.  "It was a foolish disagreement over a woman," he says, and there's anger taut in his voice.  "We mustn't let it get in the way of our –"  He cuts himself off, and Cutler wonders what he was about to say.  Friendship, perhaps – and that's not a word that Hal wants to hear right now.

"Five men against one.  That isn't just a squabble over a girl.  That's murder."  Which ought to be funny, given the number of people that Hal has killed, but there's restrained violence in every rigid line of Hal's body and it isn't entirely an act.  Cutler was on the receiving end himself, recently enough, and he can sympathise with the way that Anton's forehead is starting to glisten.

"I knew nothing about it," Anton protests.  "It was Sullivan and his friends, and I had him brought in as soon as I heard."

"Them."  And now they're getting to it: what Hal really wants.  "I think you meant to say 'them'.  All of them."

"Five of my people?" Anton snaps, startled into open defiance.  "You can't expect me to –"

"What I expect," Hal tells him, and Cutler would swear that that was genuine rage in every icy syllable, "is to be obeyed."

"But this Louis, he was young."  Anton waves a dismissive hand.  "He was a nobody."

"He was with me," Hal spits, and Anton flinches.  "An attack on him is an attack on me.  You should get down on your knees and thank me for letting you off so lightly."

Anton clearly has no idea if Hal is joking.  Neither does Cutler – this wasn't part of the script – but what he does know is that, nervous or not, Anton really shouldn't laugh like that.  Too late: Hal's closing on him, face flushed and teeth bared.

"You should be grateful that I'm allowing you to keep this territory.  And that fucking club and your pet humans."

"You liked them well enough before," Anton retorts.  "You liked Lena.  And I would like her back, please, when you've finished with her."

Then Anton is crumpling to the floor and Hal is glaring down at him, fist still raised, and this isn't how it was supposed to go.  Anton tries to lever himself up, but he's too slow and a kick in the stomach leaves him retching.  He tries again, makes it onto his hands and knees this time – and Hal's foot jars into the base of his spine and sends him sprawling.  Anton gropes a hand outwards, looking for support, for a weapon, and his fingers brush against the toe of Cutler's shoe.  But Cutler doesn't want this, doesn't want the savage focus of Hal's attention turned on him, and he jerks his foot back.  Just in time, as Hal's shoe crunches down, and god only knows how many bones just shattered, but they can probably hear Anton screaming on the other side of the floor.  

Hal needs to stop.  Someone needs to stop him, but it's not going to be Cutler, not when there's murder written on the man's face.  So Hal keeps going, kick after kick: the stomach, the kidneys, the ribs – Cutler winces at the sound of something cracking – and now there's blood mottling the carpet.  Anton tries to retreat into a protective curl, but Fergus hauls him upright and slaps a stake into Hal's outstretched hand.  Air gurgles redly past Anton's lips, but whether it's a plea for mercy or a last "fuck you" they'll never know.  It takes only seconds for the man to shrivel to dust.

Hal's ragged panting swells in the hush that follows.  A flutter of movement, but it's just the curtains: the rest of them stand, staring at the pile of dust and rumpled fabric.

"Well, that was unexpected," Cutler says.

Hal's head whips up and he glares at Cutler through his tousled fringe, and Cutler's easing heartbeat starts to clamour again.  But Hal's breathing is quieting now, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and starts to wipe his hands.

"Fuck," says Fergus, as insightful as ever.  But his grin has faded, and even he knows that this isn't good.

"What do we do now?" Dennis asks.

Hal doesn't answer, just nudges the empty clothing with one blood-smeared shoe.  "Now?" he says, and a smile stretches lazily across his face.  "We extend our most sincere condolences to Anton's successor, of course.  Dennis, would you hand me the telephone?"

Laughter bubbles up out of Cutler, but he chokes it off.  He feels faint – feels giddy – now that the excitement's over, and it's hardly surprising, given that he hasn't drunk a drop all day.

"I'm afraid," Hal is saying into the receiver, "that I have some rather bad news."

Dennis is angling his head, straining to catch the tinny, muffled voice on the other end of the line.  Fergus is picking up Anton's suit and carrying it out onto the balcony, where he shakes the dust into the breeze.  Nobody's paying the slightest bit of attention to Cutler when he snatches the flask out of Dennis's jacket and unscrews the lid.  But he can't do it, not in here – all the blood in Brighton isn't worth the risk of what Hal might do.  Cutler eases the bathroom door open and slips inside.

"Shit!"  The flask clatters onto the tiles.  The blood glugs out, a red lattice spreading along the lines of grout, towards the bath tub, towards –

Cutler backs away, has to get away from – from _that_.  But Fergus is rushing through the door, and Dennis is close behind, and they jostle him back inside.  The bathroom window is wide open, which explains all the flies, but at least it's taking away the worst of the smell.  Fergus elbows him out of the way.

"Fuck.  Who is that?"

Cutler knows.  The rot and the maggots haven't made that much of a mess – not yet – and, besides, she's wearing that dress.  The one with the midnight blue sequins, only they aren't sparkling now.

"It's Lena," Cutler tells them, and he stumbles back into the bedroom.

There's something twisting Hal's face into a stranger's, and it could be shame or fear or guilt, or something else entirely – Cutler isn't sure, isn't used to seeing uncensored emotion on that face.  Then Fergus is shoving a pile of dusty clothes into Cutler's arms, and slamming a pair of boots down on top.

"Get rid of those," Fergus snarls, and Cutler finds himself being shoved out into the corridor.

"Let me in," he yells, lifting his fist, and he's going to stand there and hammer on the door until someone opens it.  But there's a chambermaid walking towards him, a pair of curious eyes turning in his direction, and Cutler's conscious that he's clutching a dead man's clothes.

The hotel has central heating, but there's a fireplace in Cutler's room.  He fills it with crumpled newspaper and waits to see if the chimney still draws.  He feeds Anton's things to the fire – his shirt, his suit, his socks; he uses the fire tongs to pick up the man's underpants – and he watches as the evidence is reduced to ash.  Cutler's eyes are smarting by the time he's done, but at least the smoke exorcises the seeping smell of death – and Cutler hadn't imagined that, after all.  There's something going on in the room next door: bumping and scraping, and sporadic conversation but, no matter how hard Cutler presses his ear against the wall, he can't pick out a single word.  He bangs on Hal's door, and it's Fergus who answers.

"What do you want?" Fergus snaps, and that's a good question.  It's not like they're keeping Hal a prisoner, but Cutler can't shake the feeling that this is a rescue attempt.

"I want to help," Cutler says, peering round Fergus.  He gets a glimpse of Hal – sitting on the bed with his back to the door, and it's strange that he hasn't even looked round – before he's eclipsed by Dennis's bulk.  But Hal's no damsel in distress, and Cutler is nobody's idea of a knight in shining armour.

"The best thing you can do is keep your mouth shut," Fergus says.

"Who do you think I'm going to tell?" Cutler asks, but he's talking to himself: Fergus has closed the door in his face.  Again.

Cutler frets away the afternoon.  His hunger re-awakens, a deep, incessant ache, but he doesn't dare leave, not even to go looking for food.  Finally, there's a knock at the door, and he rushes to answer it.  It's only Dennis, but right now Cutler's happy to see anyone.  Dennis tells him to pack, so he does.  Dennis tells him to fill the car – both the cars – with petrol.  Cutler does, and by the time he's seen to his Zodiac, and then returned with the Bentley, the others are already waiting in the lobby.  Hal included, looking dapper in a pinstripe suit and his lucky red tie, but he doesn't say a word.  The liveried porters whisk their luggage outside, but there's one case – one heavy, bulging case – that Fergus insists on carrying himself.

The back seat is empty and silent, and Cutler's mind races to fill the void: with doubts, with fears – and a niggling sense that he's making a fool of himself with all his concern.  It's hardly unusual for Hal to lose his temper, after all, or to kill a woman once he's finished with her.  But the image of Lena – hair still perfectly curled around her grey, shrunken face – refuses to fade.  Cutler puts his foot down when they hit the motorway, desperate not to be left behind, but the gap between them opens wider and wider until the Bentley's lost from sight.

Cutler dashes into the pub to find the others lounging in their usual places.  The decanter is out, and the sight of it – the smell of it – sends Cutler scrambling to fetch another glass.  The blood is old and on the turn, but he gulps it down and it might just be the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.  Hal is watching him with that superior smile, the one that says that he knows all of Cutler's weaknesses; Dennis is busily munching his digestives.  It could be just another day, but there's a chair sitting painfully empty in Louis' spot nearest the door, and Hal is only sipping at his drink.  Fergus tops it up before it's even halfway gone – which is odd, but not as odd as the questioning glance that Fergus shoots in Dennis's direction.  Not as odd as the shrug that Dennis answers with.

"London's getting stale," Fergus says.  "Why don't we go to Wales?"

"What's in Wales?" Cutler asks, because either Fergus has just cracked, or there's something going on here that he doesn't know about.

"More sheep than bloody New Zealand," Dennis snorts.  Apparently, he's in on this, too, and Cutler's starting to feel like a character who's just wandered into the wrong play.  "And werewolves.  I've heard they're getting to be quite a nuisance.  Really, it's our civic duty to make sure they're caged."

Dog fights: that's what he means, and it ought to get Hal's attention.  It does, but Hal hesitates – actually stops, mouth hanging open, and Cutler can almost see the half-formed words sticking in his throat.  And Hal is looking not at Dennis but at Cutler, as though he expects – as though he's pleading for – some kind of interruption, but Cutler has no idea what Hal wants from him.

"What do you say, Hal," Fergus presses – pressures.  It all seems choreographed, rehearsed, and Cutler realises that he's in the right play, after all, it's just that nobody bothered to give him any lines.

Hal's eyes drop: down to his brimming glass, or maybe the swollen knuckles that are clenched around it.  He looks up, although he doesn't quite meet Fergus's stare.  "Where?" he asks.

But Fergus doesn't answer, only smiles.  "It'll be just like old times," he says.  Then Hal smiles too – and maybe it will be, after all.  
 


End file.
